Movies

With the depressing story in Patriot Acts followed by the several tragedies that occurred in Midnight Cowboys it is clear that this was not meant to be a very positive week. At least On the Waterfront had a positive ending even if it took a few deaths and beatings to get there. Despite the depressing content, I think it was very beneficial to see a darker side of New York.

I am particularly happy that we saw these movies right before reading the chapters in Caitlin's book. Before learning about the effects of gentrification it is important for us to know the New York City of yesterday and today. Midnight Cowboys showed us a shadier Time Square than the one we know today which was an adequate representation of many parts of Manhattan at that time. It also showed us how that clashed with the prim and perfect wealthy Upper East Side residents. Today this clash is fading because virtually all of Manhattan is in the process of being gentrified or will soon be swallowed up in this process along with many parts of the outer boroughs as well.

While On the Waterfront was technically in Hoboken, what happened there could have easily been a story in Brooklyn or Hells Kitchen. These union or political "Bosses" who were really just gangsters had significant power from at least the 1890's straight through till the 1960's (complete estimate). It is an important part of a larger history of corruption in New York. It is important to remember a fading part of history especially as many warehouses and factories on the water are closed down every year and the docks are beginning to look more and more like ghost towns. Also, the corruption of these little unions can and should be compared to the corruption of those looking to gentrify and reshape New York City.

New York through film

Though the two movies we watched this week share little in common other than the fact that they take place in New York City (they don't even take place in the same borough), they both depict what seems to be a zero sum game of success and wealth in the city. Midnight Cowboy does this by showing the bizarrely symbiotic intersection of the glitzy world of NYC--pristine penthouses and high-end jobs--and its sketchier side of desperate junkies and prostitutes. On the Waterfront's portrayal of corrupt union bosses that exploit workers demonstrates even more plainly the phenomenon in which a few big winners rise to the top while most people are left behind.

The stark juxtaposition between the rich and the poor is something many observers of New York (and indeed most major cities) have noted, and I think we will have an opportunity to discuss this further when we look at New York for Sale, which examines this through the lens of the real estate market and urban planning. I'm looking forward to getting all of your perspectives on that.

Movie Time

Despite being set in New Jersey, On the Waterfront has something very New York in feel. It might be the view of Manhattan that is constantly in every scene. It might be that Hoboken feels somewhat like a borough of Manhattan (perhaps because it is in the Metropolitan area). Added to this the fact that the Father in the film is said to have actually practiced and resided somewhere on the West Side of Manhattan, and that the movie was based off a series of stories about crime centered on the waterfront of Brooklyn and Manhattan. The effect, overall, is oddly New York though somewhat outer-borough.

On the Waterfront is incredible for so many reasons. First, and not only, it is gorgeous because of the cinematography. Though sometimes decidedly outdated at times—think of all those close-ups on the peoples faces—the sense of place in the movie in fantastic. They did, in fact, do most of their shooting in Hoboken, which accounts for the beautiful instances of the Manhattan skyline in the background. I personally love the rooftop scenes, with their endless rows of diverse roofs, and smoke rising, the pigeon coops, and sometimes the waterfront in the distance. It’s really quite a beautiful movie. I don’t think it’s a subtle movie, but it does bear analyzing. For instance, on the rooftop are we not supposed to call into question the parallel between Terry and his birds? They are both, essentially, inherently, trapped.

On another note, Midnight Cowboy reminds me of how gritty the city—I’ve heard—once was. Those fabled times when Times Square was sketchy rather than the commercialized zoo it is now. It is interesting to see the city then. Anthony pointed out the lack of diversity. I would say that the city was diverse, but not as it is now, and not in the same way. That is an interesting comparison to note. Plus the movie, which was filmed in 1969 and we gather is supposed to be contemporaneous, shows a different sort of take on the culture and era—there was one moment when they, quite literally, shoved their way through a protest. It is interesting to have the counterculture—specifically that counterculture (apparently hippie), because there are other countercultures presented—be a backdrop rather than a focus.

Patriot Acts Response

[sorry for the delay, computer issues and the like]

I took a class last semester called “What is Islam?” that not only gave a good background to the religion, also posed many questions about Islam in the modern world. In particular, we read many chapters from Mamdani’s Good Muslim, Bad Muslim, first at the start of the semester and then, again, at the end, right after the assassination of bin Laden. I bring this up because the issues Mamdani raises concern Adama’s story.

Mamdani posits that, after 9/11, there were two types of Muslims in the view of most Americans—good and bad. This view was solidified by the fact that shortly after the attack President Bush spoke to the American people reminding them that they should not conflate Muslims with terrorists, and that good/American Muslims will demonstrate this by helping America with its aims (that is broadly to keep our country safe, but also the various international policies that arose post-9/11). However, Mamdani rightly concludes that by forcing Muslims to prove their goodness we are assuming inherent badness from them. Beyond that, we are attributing inherent morality with a religion. Even further, we are conflating a religion with an entire personal identity and with morality.

So beyond simple horrible circumstances, I think what signaled Adama out was the fact that she was a highly visible target. She noted that when she first went back to the city she was wearing a niqab, which is (Scott, please correct me if I’m wrong, it’s been awhile since I’ve taken the course now) one of the most restrictive coverings one can choose, and thus one of the must visible. When Adama was at the airport and she was met with cries of “Go back to your country, you Talibini, go back to Osama bin Laden,” it was not simply brought on by the fact that she was Muslim, by the fact that she was visibly Muslim.

Again, someone correct me if I’m wrong but when I was younger I do vaguely remember a series of hate crimes against Sikhs. A visibility thing. Something to set them apart.

I almost feel like there’s nothing left to say, because we’ve heard it so many times. I don’t mean to be jaded; I feel fresh despair for every new story but I can’t help but to recycle the same rhetoric. She was punished for being Muslim. Our country became, at its highest levels, systematically bigoted and jingoistic. The idea of visibility stands out in this story because of how much I’ve found Islamophobia deals with appearances (do they look Muslim?) and how she was proud to veil, but then gladly stopped—all her choice. It does, ultimately, I think confirm what Mamandi proposed: after 9/11 all Muslims were bad until they proved themselves good, and unfortunately the government did not want to listen.

Similarly with images, I believe America had a tendency to conflate the image of the terrorist (and, of course beyond that, the endless stream of the towers falling, that hellish inferno) with all of the Muslim and Arab/Persian world. They were so deeply entwined for so many for so long that stories like this do not surprise me. I do want to put two things forward.

First, I’m sure you’re aware that France has been passing laws against—technically any covering of hair or face, but it is clearly an anti-burqa law. Thoughts?

Second—I’m a huge fan of the Daily Show and Jon Stewart actually had a very moving speech right after bin Laden was shot. He said that because we have removed this symbolism of hate from the world, we no longer had to think of the Muslim and Arab world and think of him, we could think of the revolutionary action in Egypt, all of Arab spring, and so much more. It simply reminded me of this story.

"Lost and Found"

I'm listening this Sunday to the WNYC show "Selected Shorts." One of the pieces on the show is an essay by Colson Whitehead called "Lost and Found." It's a look at how we all have "our" New York, complete with its own history. This isn't the description of this week's show, but you can listen to the piece, read by Alec Baldwin, if you click here and look for this episode.

New York “Lost and Found”
This special program recognizes the 10^th anniversary of the tragic events of September 11, 2001, and celebrates the resilience of the human spirit and the character of New York City. Colson Whitehead’s essay “Lost and Found” was originally published in The New York Times Magazine on November 11th, 2001—one of a series of special commissions asking writers to celebrate the city in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. For this program, we offer Whitehead’s essay in a touching reading by Alec Baldwin, paired with an arresting story by the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami, “U.F.O. in Kushiro,” read by Ken Leung.

Colson Whitehead

Alec Baldwin

Read the piece here, originally published in the New York Times Magazine.

Wow

While her story is a terrible one, the truth is that it is not even remotely close to being the first story of that nature that I have ever heard. And, I highly doubt that Sophia and Caitlin were shocked by what they read or that this was the first time they have ever encountered the horrors of the post 9/11 backlash against a multitude of people that it didn't make sense for America to target or relate to Osama Bin Laden.

Since I was a sophomore in high school I have been learning about the horrors of female circumcision and about the way the innocent suffer, often at the hand of the government designed to protect thier rights, because of racism. While reading such accounts or watching documentaries on them I always used to be disgusted by what I was learning. However, the reality of it never quite hit me. Promptly after finishing a reading, documentary, or discussion about what was happening in the world my brain would start to be consumed by topics more close to home such as my school work or my love life. Knowing about these stories wasn't enough to truly come to terms with the fact that they are not a part of a far off place that doesn't effect my life and the people around me but rather a series of disasters that is happening in my own backyard to people that I might have passed on the street at some point.

For me, it was the mention of Varick Street that suddenly made me feel like someone had hit me in the chest. I walk back and forth on that street to get to and from places. I sneak into clubs on Varick Street. I go on dates on Varick Street. I show my friends from out of town Varick Street just to try and show off how I know cool spots in the city that they as tourists most likely won't know about. I do all the typical college shenanigans that college students do and a series of immature shenanigans to attempt to look cool on Varick Street. Suddenly, I couldn't help but think back to every moment I've ever spent on that street and picture myself lying against the wall of a building while a 16 year old girl is being strip search and forced to open her butt cheeks for a 30 year old FBI agent.

This left an eerie feeling in my stomach in a way that I have never felt before. It made me truly see what is happening around me for the first time. And, what I took away from her story was a simple realization. When I hear people around me make comments like "The terrorist are from Afghanistan and the Middle East." or "The terrorist are Muslims." or the words Arab and Muslim being used interchangeably it really is my duty to correct them. While these comments aren't hatred infused comments and while they aren't on the same scale as a 16 year old girl being forced to be strip searched, it is the ignorance behind such lines of thinking that lead to the acts of cruelty Adama suffered. Every single day such comments need to be shut down in regular conversation because together these ignorant comments shape the mindset of a society which inevitably leads to the dehumanization of certain people and therefore the abuses that Adama faces.

If the government creates such practices of abuse clearly it is not afraid of the risk of exposure. Which must mean that the government is confident that the people will not oppose these measures enough to oppose the government itself. Therefore, the mindset of the people must be addressed first!

Patriot Acts response

That line, "I didn't know I wasn't an American until I was sixteen and in handcuffs." Wow. What a great opening line for a story. Too bad it's a true story.

The sad/funny thing is that as the forward by Karen Korematsu reminds us, suffering injustice at the hands of her government in the name of "security" puts Adama in good company in American history. I wouldn't go so far as to say that her experience makes her "more American," but it certainly doesn't make her less so.

Though Adama's story is extreme, it also has many elements in common with the stories of countless immigrants in New York, past and present: detention (and fear of detention), working multiple jobs to support a family, discrimination, having to explain her customs to kids in school...a lot of this sounds familiar. While this story is appropriate for a book on post-9/11 America, it could also fit into a collection of stories about immigrant children. After all, how many teenagers only learn that they are undocumented when they are about to apply to college? The constant fear that that brings, I would imagine, is something akin to what Adama felt when she tried to board an airplane. Even having officials barge into her home in the middle of the night reminded me of stories I've heard about ICE raids. Last year I met an undocumented Haitian man that had to wear an ankle bracelet the way Adama did. So although there hasn't been (I hope) a rash of young girls being falsely accused of planning terrorist attacks, and although Adama's story is highly disturbing, it also strikes me as part of a pattern that dates back many years before 9/11.

Occupy Wall Street pics

I thought you guys might enjoy some photos I took of the occupation of Wall Street the other night (be sure to hit "Read More"):

 This poor man is doomed to have flyers thrust at him for all eternity--a New Yorker's hell.

From A to Z

Since you've all posted about a NYC book I've never read but that you've found fascinating and insightful, I thought I'd quickly do the same. Several years ago someone turned me on to David Dunlap's From Abyssinian to Zion: A Guide to Manhattan's Houses of Worship.

The book is set up like a travel guide, pointing out and describing all the places New Yorkers pray and meditate, etc., but it has an added feature of remembering as many of the old and forgotten houses of worship as it can, publishing photos and describing, just for example, a church, All Angels', that once stood in what's now the middle of Central Park.

Book Review/Jazz Club/Panel Discussion

So, I guess this week the theme ended up being book reviews. And, with such good suggestions it makes me wonder whether we should take another look at the syllabus and see if we should make some changes. Since the three of us have a book we are suggesting I am assuming that means that we clearly have all read at least the book we are reviewing. So, maybe we cut a book or two that we have all read out of the syllabus (such as Catcher in the Rye) and instead we read the books that our other two classmates suggested. Also, I have a copy of the book that was presented at the panel on Tuesday night and maybe, since Scott is familiar with it and currently teaching it, he can pick a story or two from it for us to all read and I can make copies for all of us. I feel that might also be a necessary contribution to the course seeing as the 10th anniversary just occurred and that is such a significant part of the past and present of the city that is the focus of this tutorial. But, lets discuss this all on Tuesday!

Now that all of that is out of the way, on to my book review. Crossing the Blvd is a collection of oral stories that was collected by Gallatin's own Judith Sloan and her husband Warren. It is a collection of stories from refugees who now reside in Queens, NY. It captures all of their unique stories about where they came from and how they ended up here along with their varying perspectives of New York, American culture, and our American government. I love this book because it shows how diverse this city is and how many opportunities there are to learn about the world just by getting out there and conversing with the people around us.

Now, about our Jazz Club experience... Caitlin, Sophia, and I went to Fat Cat. It is located on the corner of 7th ave and Christopher Street just a block away from the renowned Stonewall. Needless to say, there is an interesting and very liberal crowd that frequents this club. While many music lovers roll their eyes at Fat Cat and suggest a more traditional club, like the Lenox Lounge or the Blue Note, I dig the atmosphere here. I love all the games that are available to play and the neon lit back room. The jazz was very good and I think we had fun seeing the varying people inside from the NYU students to the business types who stopped in for a drink and some Jazz after work to the artsy foreigners who came in for some chess and intellectually stimulating conversation.

Jumping on the book review bandwagon...

I’m reading Tom Angotti’s New York for Sale for one of my classes, and I wanted to share this little excerpt with you guys: “New state legislation in 1974 marked the beginning of the end for strict rent controls and the phasing in of rent stabilization, which allowed for gradual rental increases. One of rent stabilization’s unforeseen consequences, however, was that is extended the life of tenant organizing and rent strikes, now a virtually permanent fixture in community life.”

This strikes me as a theme throughout the book—though constantly faced with the prospect of displacement, gentrification, the prospect of a waste treatment plant in their neighborhood, etc. communities in New York have organized heavily to try to create the city they want to live in. As an outsider, I am frequently struck by the culture of activism that exists here. Last year I think I attended more demonstrations in New York than were even held in Miami in that time period (and I didn’t even go to that many.)  I imagine this has a lot to do with the history of the place—it has had a lot of time to generate that kind of culture—and of course the sheer density of people. But also I think the city promises so much, presents itself as the center of the universe even, so it seems natural for its residents to allow themselves to have high expectations. Whatever the reason, I feel grateful for all these organizers past, present and future that make sure New York is a city worth living in.

Super Sad True Love Story

I began to reread Gary Shteyngart’s superb Super Sad True Love Story this week, due to a mixture of sickness, lack of interest in my current reading selection (Genet’s beautifully written but difficult Our Lady of the Flowers), and the simple fact that Shteygart has written an incredibly moving and humorous story. Super Sad True Love Story takes place in the near future, in an America that is recognizable though very different, right here in New York. America is about to default on its credit (to China), there is a long war between America and Venezuela, and they live in, as Lenny Abramov says, a “post-literate” society. It is an extraordinary work of contemporary fiction.

Most extraordinary is Shteyngart’s beauty of language and his ability to describe New York with an appreciation and melancholy that could break your heart. As the New York Times says, Shteygart’s portrayals of the city “are infused with a deep affection for the city that is partly nostalgia for a vanished metropolis…and partly an immigrant’s awestruck love for a place mythologized by books and songs and movies…” Despite the darkness of the work overall (though the darkness is hidden well under the overall satire of the work), New York itself, the city of Shteygart’s dreams, retains its beauty.

There is one beautiful moment (there are, in fact, multiple beautiful moments of this) when Lenny describes the city on “a day…when the sun hits the broad avenues at such an angle that you experience the sensation of the whole city being flooded by a melancholy twentieth-century light, even the most prosaic and unloved buildings appearing bright and nuclear…and when this happens you want to both cry for something lost and run out there and welcome the decline of the day” (204). New York City is lost for Lenny, who it would seem grew up in a different era, one before the “decline.” His accounts are, more than anything else, nostalgic for that.

Shteyngart is, of course, neither the first to write of the city nor the last. I feel, however, that he joins a very important tradition. I feel, ultimately, that despite the hardships one endures within it, writers will continue to write of it affectionately and movingly. Think of Henry Miller, or William Burroughs, or any of the other downtrodden writers. Despite their struggles (Miller was, after all, destitute essentially, and Burroughs was… beat), their descriptions of the city are so full of love and carefully crafted detail. Shteyngart similarly creates a nation on the edge of despair, but the one thing that remains is the beauty of the city.

Though, of course, I’ve noticed that there is an essential longing that is pervasive within these works (the feeling of it was beautiful once), what remains clearer is the devotion of artists to the city. This, I think, will always remain.

Williamsburg

Within seconds of stepping out of the M train at the Marcy Avenue stop the differences between Williamsburg and downtown Manhattan became apparent. For starters, the subway stop is not only above ground but on a bridge on top of the city street. As we walked down the steps and onto the street I was shocked to find the street nearly empty and that most of the stores on it were closed on a Saturday afternoon. As we walked around I realized that it wasn't just a quiet area. This was the vibe of all of Williamsburg. It's a very quiet part of the city with a lot less activity than Manhattan. You can expect to walk down any random block on a Saturday afternoon and expect to see nobody else walk by you. And, if there is someone else walking down the street, there is a chance that it could be a Hasidic Jewish man going down to the waterfront with his son or a hipster discussing poetry with his girlfriend, both of which we saw walking down the street. The only signs of significant weekend activity were the basketball courts we passed by which were filled with several African American men playing pick up games of basketball. This, along with the friendly nature of all of the people we came in contact with, definitely made Williamsburg feel like a suburb which is not at all what I would have expected of an area so close and connected to downtown Manhattan.

With a few exceptions, the buildings are only a few stories tall and most of which have this shabby run down kind of look that comes complete with some form of graffiti present. And then, as you get closer to the waterfront there are abandoned warehouses side by side with construction sites for new luxury apartment buildings. Which, given the abandoned look of the neighborhood and the nations ailing economy, makes me concerned about whether or not there is or ever will be a market for this extensive development. The walk from the Williamsburg bridge down to the Brooklyn Bridge brought us through a more residential area. Then, after walking past a housing project, the area right by the Brooklyn Bridge looks dramatically different than the area around it. It's not the buildings that make it look different. They are still warehouses next to apartments next to shorter buildings. It is the people, lack of graffiti, and content of the stores in the area that stuck out and made it clear we were entering a more gentrified area. The people are dressed in suits and dresses rushing to eat at the fancy restaurants that greeted every other street corner. Rather than seeing a hardware store or little grocery store the windows greeted us with antiques, art, and books.

Caitlin was absolutely right in saying that it felt like a social experiment. Nothing felt like it fit in Williamsburg. I had to keep checking Caitlin's google map on her phone to make sure we had not wandered into another part of Brooklyn because each area we passed seemed like it could not be in the same part of the city as the area we just left. This made me very curious about both the history of this area and about what surprises the rest of Brooklyn might potentially have in store for us. We should definitely explore more of this borough in this class.

I have been thinking about Baudelaire a lot, and Haussman’s Renovation of Paris. In 1857 Charles Baudelaire published Les Fleurs du Mal, overcome by nostalgia for his lost Paris and, beyond that, the cities and civilizations before it. “The Swan” remains my favorite poem. “Paris changes! But nothing in my sadness has moved!”

I have been thinking about Baudelaire, and that line in particular, because I feel uneasy in the realization that often I love the city not for what it is, but for what I knew it was, and what I feel it still should be.

Beyond all, the city now makes me nostalgic, the same way the Parisian streets did for Baudelaire. In Brooklyn, Anthony, Caitlin, and I passed a building covered in gorgeous, bright graffiti, and I could only think, for an instance, about the graffiti under the bridges in Athens, absurd images of swarms of bees and slogans of “freedom or death,” and I began to yearn for it. Despite its trouble, I had started to miss Greece. At the restaurant we ate at—some Southern-inspired, hipster locale—my dish reminded me of my mother’s cooking and beyond that her and her sisters, their town in Georgia. Going down by the water, reminded me of being young and having my grandfather take me to the beach. I didn’t miss the beach; I missed being young.

The city has stopped beings the ends for me. It has begun to exist only in relation to pervasive feelings of melancholy.

I don’t think about the city much anymore. I should say, I don’t have my own thoughts on the city because it tightens and rips and cuts and somehow destroys me. Passing the empty factories in Williamsburg is, actually, quite an overwhelming feeling, perhaps ineffably so. You feel the rage of such a waste of space (and the homeless you see everyday…), some vague sense of shame (for the greed of the city, for what it became), some wonder (that this factory, and ones like it, created this village and its skeleton is still standing), and sheer amazement (at the beauty of its silhouette against a cold skyline, somehow, inexplicably). Mostly, though, thinking too hard on it simply makes you sad.

Not only that, my impression of the city feels, perhaps as Foer would say, “once-removed” and my consideration of it is, in no small part, influenced by artists who have loved it before me. Across from the factories was a great patch of land. As O’Hara would say, “I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there's a subway handy…” I have become a flaneur. I walk the streets to clear my head, and think. I think about Ginsberg. I think, very clearly, his words: “my greater loves of Lower East Side.” Not because I have had any, but because he had and my thoughts and feelings are somehow only cemented in his words. My “absences and ecsasties” are his. And O’Hara’s, and Dylan’s, and Baldwin’s, and many more I can’t name. Even when I lead my own narrative, create my own observations, I feel as if I do not.

Do not misunderstand me. I am in awe of the city. Every morning when I wake up, and see the skyline, I find it unreal that any place could be as stark, and sharp, and sublime. Like Baudelaire, I want to continue to write of my city. But, like Baudelaire, I fear that I am searching for something that is lost. As bright and live and pulsing as the city can be, it still feels like an echo. Williamsburg felt like a book already written, put back on the shelf.

Some thoughts on Williamsburg

Like the New York Times in 2010, Anthony, Sofia and I bravely ventured into Brooklyn yesterday. Though I had never spent much time in Williamsburg before, it felt strangely familiar. The neighborhood seemed eager to prove the typical narrative written about it to be true. Young cyclists honked their bike horns at Hasidic Jews and grumpily reminded them that they were standing in a bike lane, lest anyone forget about the much-written-about feud over bike lanes in Brooklyn. The old boarded up sugar refinery stared sulkily at new clubs and lofts. The whole area seemed to be begging for someone to slap the words “case study” on it.

courtesy of www.knittaplease.com

In the midst of all this typical-ness, there was something rather homey and surprising underneath the Williamsburg Bridge—an art installation by Magda Sayeg made up of knitted sleeves that covered iron rods and created the words “Plan Ahead,” the last couple letters squeezed awkwardly into a space too small for them. This colorful mandate reminded me of a discussion we had in my gentrification class last week, the summary of which is that drastic changes in neighborhood composition are rarely simply the work of natural forces, but rather require calculated decisions on someone’s part.

One of those calculated decisions in Williamsburg’s evolution was the 2005 rezoning of the waterfront area for residential construction. The city’s inclusionary zoning policy attempted to incentivize the building of affordable housing, but has not been terribly successful and, some have argued, even contributed to the real estate bust in Williamsburg. (The best laid plans, you know.) So while it’s fair to talk about artists and coffee shops and the role they have to play in all this, developers and city planners are probably much more to blame (or thank, depending on who you are) for the neighborhood’s recent trajectory. Just walking around yesterday it seemed like there was something for everyone in Williamsburg—basketball courts where pickup games were being played, independent bookstores, yeshivas, quaint brick apartment buildings, modern lofts with rooftop gardens—but as any case study about New York City neighborhoods will tell you, something is bound to get squeezed out, like the “a” and “d” in Sayeg's “Plan Ahead.”

I had dinner at Sushi Yasuda last night. It was amazing.

Patriot Acts Panel - 9/13 - 7p

WELCOME

Welcome to our class blog! I still have to make it all nice and pretty but at least we can start using it!